


Reporting to Head Office

by onetiredboy



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angsty Crowley (Good Omens), Fallen Angel Crowley (Good Omens), Gen, Pining Crowley (Good Omens), set between the St James fight and the Nazi church, some angel!crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-31 15:22:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20117269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onetiredboy/pseuds/onetiredboy
Summary: It's not true that Crowley didn't see Aziraphale for a whole century between the St. James fight and the church with the Nazis, but for Crowley's sake, they both pretend it that way.





	Reporting to Head Office

Crowley has a mixed relationship with most of the demons in Hell. Hastur and Ligur he can stand – the both of them are idiots, but innocently so, in a way that almost (_almost_) elicits pity. The both of them are so busy trying to spread _dissent and discord _throughout the land that they’ll never know how it feels to have a glass of wine and watch the sun set from within a cocoon of the finest, softest blankets the world has to offer. Dagon and Beelzebub are one up in the scale of annoying – the two of them are bureaucrats, and worse, actually _believe _in the almighty power of Hell. But the demons Crowley finds most challenging are The Original Crew, those who knew him back in Heaven, and worst of all…

“_Crawley,” _a bored-looking demon calls out from behind a desk. A beetle crawls into their mouth and without hesitation they begin chewing.

“For the last time,” Crowley mutters as he stands up, brushing down his suit, “That’s not my name.”

“And for the last time,” the demon receptionist replies, “We are _not _changing your celestial name to Anthony. Couldn’t you go in for something a little more… native? I believe you were offered Asmodeus.”

Crowley scoffs and turns his head away from the receptionist. He’s not even in the mood for a snarky rebuttal, even if Asmodeus is literally the most ridiculous name he could ever be given. He has_ business_, and he wants to get it over and done with as soon as possible. “Just buzz me in.”

The receptionist presses a button underneath a desk, and the wall behind them disintegrates unevenly, leaving behind a jagged hole. The room within pulses red, and a wave of heat blasts outward. Crowley grunts and steps forward.

“Ahem,” the receptionist clears their throat, reaches up, and taps their eyeball. Crowley looks at them for a moment, and then—

“Ah, right…” Crowley takes his sunglasses off, tucking them into his shirt. It’s not that he’s comfortable without them, it’s just that the Big Boss finds it concerning that he tries to hide his eyes. Crowley blinks quite deliberately for a moment, giving a quick snake-tongued lick to the air to help him gain his bearings while his eyes re-adjust to the light.

“_CROWLEY…” _comes a voice from within. Crowley grimaces, and then he steps into Hell’s HQ.

“Luuuccifeeerrr,” he drawls, opening his arms wide, “Time’s treated you well, eh?”

Satan is a beast. He is monstrously huge, filling up the entirety of the cavern Crowley is in as far as he can see, his hulking red body filling up every spare nook and cranny of space. It’s unnatural – but unnatural in the human sense of the word. Celestially speaking, without the laws of physics trying to tell you that a creature cannot both have a defined shape and yet fill every available space like a liquid at the same time, it’s fairly regular.

Crowley only gets called in here when he’s _really _in trouble.

“CROWLEY…” Lucifer says again, and the huge mound of his face comes in towards him, tipping curiously in the reflected, flickering light coming off the distant streams of lava. “WHERE WERE YOU LAST DECEMBER?”

“Last… December?” Crowley asks innocently. He puts his hands in his pockets and sucks a breath in through his teeth, rocking back on his heels theatrically. “Last December… oh boy… Last December… Ah!” Crowley clicks his fingers and smiles, “Slept through that one.”

Satan stares at him for a moment.

“YOU SLEPT THROUGH DECEMBER IN THE MIDDLE OF WORLD WAR ONE?”

Crowley clicks his tongue, “Look, Lucy, I don’t know. All that miserable shooting going on, the snow coming in thick, I mean… I’d done my bit, hadn’t I? Can you blame a being for wanting to clock out to celebrate a job well done?”

“A JOB WELL DONE…” Satan mutters. The cave around them begins to rumble, and Satan leans in close, closer than the physics of the room should technically allow. He smells horrible. Crowley politely does not block his nose, but he does dull his smell sense.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT HAPPENED IN DECEMBER 1914?”

Crowley knows. He purses his lips, then shrugs, “More fighting?”

“NO!”

Lava explodes out from the wall behind Satan and narrowly misses Crowley’s new shoes. “Nice effects,” he says, “Though I think it would be a little more tasteful if—”

Satan says Crowley’s name—his _real _one—in the Celestial tongue, and it sews Crowley’s mouth shut. A few more instructions in that ancient language, and Crowley’s on his knees. His wings unzip from his body, scales crawling up his back and over his face.

“THEY CALLED A TRUCE,” Satan bellows, “A _TRUCE_. THEY PLAYED SOCCER, THE ENGLISH AND THE GERMANS. THEY HAD DINNER. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW BIG A WIN HEAVEN IS TREATING IT? THEY _HAD A PARTY_.”

Crowley trembles on the ground. His mouth is released with a mutter from the humongous demon above him, and he tests it out, licking the air again. It smells like burning wings. The smell is too familiar.

There’s a sound like a mouse-trap, or a finger-snap, only infinitely too loud, reverberating off the walls. Crowley glances up.

In front of him, standing and swaying slightly, is Lucifer. Not _Satan,_ but _Lucifer. _He takes a step towards Crowley and unfurls huge, powerful red wings, the same colour of his and Crowley’s hair.

Lucifer helps Crowley to his feet. When he speaks, his voice is still booming.

“DON’T FORGET WHO YOU ARE, CROWLEY.”

Lucifer reaches forward and picks the pair of sunglasses off of Crowley’s shirt. He looks them over, then smiles, putting them on his face. Crowley bristles.

“I KNOW WHAT YOU WANT. TO BE ONE OF THEM.”

The glasses begin to melt. Behind them, Lucifer’s eyes are snakeish. He gets taller in front of Crowley’s eyes, his wings running black, his hair shortening, and Crowley stares himself in the face.

“LOOK AT YOU.”

Lucifer reaches up to his own eyelids and pulls them down, showing off Crowley’s snake-pupils. He opens his mouth and lets a thick snaking tongue unfurl, almost human-like if not for the fork.

“YOU DON’T FIT IN WITH THEM, CROWLEY. YOU NEVER WILL. JUST AS YOU NEVER DID WITH _THEM_.”

Another finger snap, and suddenly the not-Crowley in front of him has long, beautiful hair. Crowley closes his eyes quickly, looking away, but a few words in the Celestial tongue has him, against his will, looking back.

“YOU WERE SO BEAUTIFUL,” Lucifer says, spinning in the long white dress he’s in. His hair is Crowley’s red, but cleaner, brighter, with more volume. His wings are a gorgeous, pristine white, and his eyes… his eyes…

“BUT YOU DIDN’T BELONG THERE, EITHER.”

Then the screaming. Crowley hears it in his own head first, and then it grows too loud, leaks out of his ears and eyes and mouth until the whole cavern is reverberating with desperate, breaking screams. Lucifer is losing feathers, his wings are turning black. His hair is getting dirtier, and those eyes… those beautiful eyes… Crowley feels the whole thing. He feels it tearing him apart, ripping the holy light from his very matter. The pain is locked in some dark part of him forever, and it only takes a beckon from a demon infinitely more powerful in the ancient tongue of the universe to pull it out, to make him experience it all again. The scream isn’t just oozing out of him, it’s coming out of him too, and he falls to his knees, feeling his mortal body begin to pulse and stretch against the supernatural pressure.

And then Lucifer smiles, with sharp teeth and snake-pupils and a sharp black suit. He snaps his fingers and a pair of sunglasses manifest. He steps forward, leaning down to where Crowley is cowering, and tucks them into Crowley’s shirt.

“DON’T GET AHEAD OF YOURSELF, CROWLEY,” Lucifer says, and he takes a step back. As he steps backwards, his form begins to loosen, shake and melt, until it runs red and bulbous, growing and swelling until a huge demon is in front of him again, filling the room. “IF YOU DON’T HAVE US,” Satan reminds him, “YOU HAVE NOTHING. I ALWAYS SAW POTENTIAL IN YOU. DO NOT DISAPPOINT ME.”

Crowley is given a second of peace, trembling on the ground, and then Satan loses his patience.

“DON’T LET ME SEE YOU IN HERE AGAIN,” Satan spits, and clicks his fingers again. The world around Crowley blurs, and it doesn’t matter where he lands. It’s on Earth, so it doesn’t matter where he lands.

Crowley thinks he might be in a gutter, but he doesn’t take the chance to look around. He passes out.

* * *

“…Last time I ever let you out of my sight… and to think you wanted Holy Water, I’d have to be out of my mind…”

Crowley groans. He doesn’t get aches and pains – not on a physical level, but his true form, somewhere inside him, is throbbing in pain. His wings, though they’re not out now, are tingling. “’Ziraphale…”

“Oh, God, Crowley, you’re awake.”

Crowley opens his eyes and finds he can barely see. He tastes the air and forms a picture in his mind of the room while he waits for his vision to kick back in. Slowly, he places himself, rearranging his mental picture of Life On Earth. This is, he remembers, the first time he’s seen Aziraphale since the fight in St. James’ park.

Crowley sits up suddenly, tensing all over. “What am I doing here?” he snaps.

He can see now, albeit a little blurrily. He sees Aziraphale draw himself up, but doesn’t miss the glimpse of a look of concern on his face. It almost melts him down, but whatever it was, it’s gone now. Aziraphale huffs angrily.

“What are _you _doing here? God help me, Crowley, according to the locals, you’ve been fainted in a gutter at the side of the road for a week. I don’t know _how _drunk you got, but you cannot expect _me _to sweep in and save you—”

“I don’t need you to save me, angel,” Crowley snarls.

Aziraphale scoffs, “Don’t bother thanking me, I suppose.”

“_Thanking _you?” Crowley stands up from the couch. He still can’t see right, and he stumbles. Before he can right himself, Aziraphale’s arms are on him, pulling him to his feet. There’s that soft look on his face again, and for a moment, there’s a pause. Then Crowley pushes him away, grumbling a string of unintelligible syllables in protest. “_Thanking _you,” he spits again, “For _what_? I don’t owe you anything. We’re enemies, remember? That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“Well—!” Aziraphale clenches his fists, and Crowley knows he’s got him. He can’t step down without going back on it all, their whole argument. And his angel won’t do that.

“Ngk,” Crowley says. He pushes past Aziraphale, his legs almost collapsing as he swipes his jacket angrily off the couch.

“Crowley! You can’t leave!” Aziraphale calls after him.

Crowley swings around and almost falls, “And why not?” he slurs.

“_Look _at you!” Aziraphale reaches his arms out, exasperated, “There’s a war going on, you’ve been missing for over half a century, and—_something _has happened to you. Sit down, and at least have a cup of tea before you go. We don’t have to talk.”

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley sneers, “But clearly I’ve learned where your loyalties lie. I wouldn’t want you getting another _strongly worded note _like you did back in Paris. God knows you have it hard in Heaven.”

It cuts, Crowley sees it. Aziraphale flinches back and the first thing Crowley feels, annoyingly, is his inner resolve fall away. He wants to apologise. He wants to have a cup of tea, and cry, and maybe steal touches he’s not allowed to have, be looked after, fawned over, just maybe make it all up, have Aziraphale for once – _just once – _call him a friend. He wants more, but he’d take that. He’d take that.

But he doesn’t belong here, either.

Crowley curls his lip at Aziraphale’s hurt face, mocking, and then he opens the door to Aziraphale’s bookshop. The world outside is cold, bleak, and terrible. Crowley wobbles outside. He glances back for a moment.

“Do me a favour,” he mutters, “Forget you ever saw me here.”

And he slams the door behind him.

* * *

_“I’m thinking of calling them ‘constellations’,” Crawley said, drawing a quick squiggle in the dirt with a stick. “Think about it—being able to tell stories in the stars. Reminders for the people below that we look out for them.”_

_An angel blinked back at Crawley and then turned their head away. Another angel gave them a frown._

_“Why would we do that?” they asked, “The Almighty said to put them in their own clusters, according to the map we were given. It doesn’t need anything else but that.”_

_“Why not?” Crawley asked._

_They were not given a reply. A few angels glanced over their shoulders at them, and Crawley rolled their eyes. They began twisting a third braid into their hair. _

_“You’ve got a point, you know.”_

_Crawley glanced over their shoulder. Standing by them, smiling gently, was an angel with beautiful red hair, in exactly Crawley’s shade. They had brown eyes, and a perfectly sculpted face. All angels had a radiating beauty about them, an ethereal glory to their auras, but this angel had beauty upon that, a physical beauty incomparable to anything Crawley had seen before. They reached out a hand._

_“Lucifer,” they said, and Crawley took it, their eyes widening._

_“Lucifer!” Rumours spread that this was God’s favourite angel, and further rumours spread that they were the most beautiful being in Heaven. Crawley would not have been hard-pressed to believe it. “I’m—”_

_“Crawley. I know,” Lucifer winked at them, and then glanced at the other angels, who weren’t so much as giving the two of them a second look. _

_“Hey. Why don’t you come along with me and my friends and tell me about those constellations, hm?”_

_Crawley glanced over at the other angels, and then nodded slowly. “I… I do have a job to do.”_

_“Aw, they won’t miss you,” Lucifer said, shrugging an elegant shoulder, “And I’ll get you out of trouble if you do. But come on…” they leaned in and muttered, under their breath, “I don’t think an angel as nice as you belongs here, with them.”_

_Crawley bit the inside of their cheek. “You’ve got a point, there. Alright then, I’ve got nothing else on. Let’s go.”_


End file.
